My love of books

What should I make of this strange theme occupying my mind today? I fold and unfold my hands; the cold entering my ten fingers. For the last few weeks, I’ve been trying to bring this keyboard to life, but all my beautiful words have remained silent. My little self tumbles and falls into the void, most likely too soon. The long train of my breakfast queen dress crumbles like an overcooked cake. Despite the thousand crumbs of words, an abundance of Sunday letters and a feast for the birds, sometimes even in English, words now escape me. What can I say, what can I do? Maybe one morning, or at dusk, my heavy head will empty itself like a dried-up well. I’m in pain and suffering. My world is a vast reservoir of words that scatter, spread out and, on the rare occasion, fly away. This incessant buzz of stories I have difficulty remembering. All the heavy sentences I need to rejuvenate; all the wonderful words I’ve started to forget. I sometimes get the blues, these tiny nips of time. This awful feeling of being lonely, eaten away by depression or anguish. I’ve often written about happy things and real people, like those who wait for my letters each week. All I can do is stay close to my dear readers, to the presence of other humans, to my amazing peers. I don’t want to get off the treadmill of life. Maybe I’ll stagger or even fall at times, but I’ll get back up no matter what. I’ll certainly experience loss, burn a batch of cookies, miss appointments and lose my keys. The important thing is to never forget the human in an encounter, an emotion or a simple curiosity. Could this be my way of escaping loneliness? With my old superhero costume, will I resuscitate my forgotten memories, the free flow of words, the link between my ideas? Most of all, what can I do to slow down the growing absence of these precious words? Would a small comma suffice to change my life’s course? The fog clears, morning is rising. A few vague dreams are still teasing my toes. So many words are falling into the void; so many sentences are fighting to be heard. These aging days have opened an abyss of stupor, sluggishness and dismay. My body leans over my hands resting on the small sink, and the mirror reflects a once pretty face now inflicted with dark circles and wrinkles. I search for a nice word, a good idea. A grimace appears in the mirror. A murder of crows fills my big apple tree, I stay warm in my retreat, peeling off the frocks of apples to make a dessert. What a talented cook I was, the creator of so many delicious breakfasts! I’m almost certain I’ll be feeding the angels and archangels in heaven. The euphoria of possession fades quite quickly. Same goes for obstacles that are just a series of lessons to be learned. Could I have been a little too hard on myself? I always tried my best. I didn’t write to perform, but to express my love for my readers. How can I survive when my reasons for living are shrinking? When work and family no longer need my effort, when my abilities are no longer solicited and I seem to be increasingly useless though I have so much time on my hands and a little energy still. How do you live without desperately hanging onto responsibilities that younger people or others do better? What meaning do you give a life that’s fading? A few wise philosophers speak to me about a new life, a life with no other reason for living than life itself. No more temptation from desiring, hoping, achieving and pursuing success. I only want to be alive, able to read and hold a pencil to write or draw. I promise myself I will change my modus operandi. I’ll soothe the old lady with a few lines of poetry, a few haikus, I’ll take up drawing again, go on road trips in my Mini, maybe even visit the Gaspésie again. Day after day, l’ll continue to observe and describe my small pleasures, my panics, my surprises and my little slips of memory. Calm and willing, I wait until the day’s dying light illuminates the stars! Cora ♥️

For Father’s Day, I’m sharing this story with you: the time I resuscitated my Father’s memory to tell him I loved him. Did I ever tell him? In my head, I see him in front of me, crossing the kitchen floor in Caplan. His large body, suddenly as light as a feather, moving like the ghost of a forgotten man. He almost never spoke to Mom. For her part, she ignored him most of the time. Their conversations were restricted to what was necessary. I remember the painful sorrow that haunted my sisters, my brother and I during those early years as well as the two adults we called Mom and Dad. What roles did they play in our lives besides working to feed us? Often, at night, Dad opened a small can of sardines in just one pull. It would set mom off. I knew it all too well. She’d call him insatiable and remind him that he was already fat enough. “As large as the house,” she’d complain to Mrs. Berthelot, our neighbour. Dad grabbed the big red box of crackers in the pantry, opened the glass door of the cabinet and took the red plate that belonged to Granny Cora, his mother. I knew he always got a small craving at night, a voracious grief devouring his heart. It made me sad to see Mom insult him while he sat there eating in silence. Dad would take two headless, drained sardines with his fingers and lay them out on a cracker. Then, with his large hand, he’d drown his sorrow in his wide-open mouth. Then came the audible “crunch, crunch” of the sardines and crackers being dispatched in one go. Did I ever tell him I loved him? For fun, the youngest one sometimes clambered on top of Dad when he was stretched out on the couch. Sitting astride his belly, she’d grab his shirt and kick her heels into his sides, his flesh already bruised by life. “Yee haw!” yelled my brother who tried to catch Dad’s swollen feet with a lasso. Inevitably, this game threw Mom into a fit of rage. She’d immediately order me to put an end to the nonsense, as Dad laid helpless on the couch. Did I ever tell him I loved him? When night came, I sometimes heard Mom vent her hostility on Dad. I cried, my head under the pillow. I sobbed again when Dad left on Sunday afternoon or Monday morning with his travelling salesman’s suitcase. I had to wait five long days before he’d return home. Did I ever tell him I loved him? The day before his departure, as Mom ironed Dad’s shirts and two pairs of pants, I’d hear her grumble about Dad’s size. She had to extend each leg twice on the ironing board, plus do the crotch, the pockets and the huge waistline of “her enormous husband,” as she often repeated. Infuriated, she’d apply a damp square of linen to help smooth the fabric. The day after he left for work, Mom would empty her bag of heartache in front of Mrs. Berthelot, who was married to a schoolteacher as skinny as a broomstick. When Dad left home to provide for us, did I ever tell him I loved him? I knew nothing about love in those days. Do I really know any more now? As a child, I cried in secret when I saw Dad sad or hurt. Once married, I sobbed in silence when I had to face my overwhelming solitude. I was still very young and could tell that something wasn’t right between my parents. I observed our neighbours and noticed that, in our home, there was no affection between the parents. No kisses behind the ear that our neighbour gave his wife; no exchange of mischievous smiles or weekend trips to the cottage without the kids. Between our parents, the essential was absent. Even my brother had mentioned to Grandpa Frédéric that Dad brought sadness back with him every Friday night when he’d return from his travels. One day, I must’ve been five or six, Dad came back from a trip and called me “Coco.” A small word that felt as soft as a kitten’s ears. The first time I heard him calling me Coco, my young heart shivered with happiness. As if the cat’s paw had found its way into the palm of my hand. For the entire week that followed, that short word reminded me of Dad’s face, his eyes lighting sparkles in mine. Did I ever tell him I loved him? Then, one day, we left the orange cliffs of my childhood. But sorrow always moved with us, settling in at each subsequent home: in Mont-Joli, Sainte-Foy, in the suburbs of Montreal and, finally, in Sainte-Adèle. By that time, it was only the two of them. Dad passed away there, and the sorrow disappeared with him. In turn, I became an adult who also never knew the sweet nothings, tender looks and kisses enjoyed between husband and wife. As I’ve written in a previous letter, I only learned about the reasons for their heavy grief at Mom’s funeral. Mom had been in love with a Protestant anglophone but was forced by the town priest and family to leave him. My grandfather convinced his broken-hearted daughter to marry a good man. A man who was crazy for her but who was never able to win her heart. Sometimes, we sacrifice a whole life in the hopes of a few kisses or tender words whispered behind our ear. We imagine love as big as a mountain and, while we wait in vain, the mountain engulfs us. Big as it may be, it’s never enough to fill the void of love in our poor hearts. I never really learned to say “I love you.” Those absent words, that unspoken, brief declaration full of meaning hung heavy on the sorrow I lived with since childhood. Today, an old woman, I decided to resuscitate my dad to tell him I loved him. Yes, I love you, dearest Dad. You were my first love and you may just very well be my last, although I hope that won’t be true. If you can, send me an angel from above, Dad, one who will take human shape as a good, kind-hearted man, who’ll love as much as I loved you. Your sweet Coco. Happy Father’s Day to all dads! 💖

One morning, at the grocery store, miserable like a pumpkin who thinks it’s a vegetable, I walk down the aisles on the lookout for a little pick-me-up. Inside my sad heart, a few tears fall and blur my short grocery list. Aging and living alone unsettles me, zaps my appetite. I’m losing a bit of weight. Dressed in pants and a jacket a tad too roomy now, I walk down the frozen aisle like a polar-class icebreaker headed straight for its frozen sorrow. In front of the candy display, I think about my two great-grandsons whose mother doesn’t want them eating hard candies. Personally, I have a sweet spot for the black-brown candy that tastes like coffee. So delicious! A young redhead approaches and places exactly 225 grams of sweets on the small candy scale. — “Half a pound of happiness!,” says the young man. I wonder if it’ll be enough to satisfy his sweet tooth. A heat wave suddenly clutches my insides. It’s noon on the dot, and, standing in this large grocery store, I’m hungry for hugs. I’m thirsty for love. I’d love to be in someone’s arms, in my mother’s or father’s arms, so they could rock me, reassure me and tell me tender words. In the lettuce section, a handsome older man with a white apron strikes up a conversation with me and explains all the benefits of avocados. Avocado in French is spelled “avocat,” which sounds the same as the word for “lawyer.” So I reply with a smile: “The avocat (lawyer) I know is in very good health. He spends his days in the office drawing up important franchise and work contracts for the company.” — “Excuse me, but the “avocat” I’m talking about is edible! Rich in lipids, it provides all kinds of healthy benefits.” — “Well, I should eat more of them then, shouldn’t I?” — “Take my word for it,” says the older man in the white apron. “I eat two or three every week, and I’m in tip-top shape. I play hockey, I jump rope and my wife forces me to maintain a big garden in the summer and shovel the snow in the winter.” Heavens! I want to place this man wearing a white apron in my shopping cart. Instead, I feel the avocado. It turns out to be not too hard, nor too soft, and I eventually take two of them. The expert in the apron confirms they’re perfectly ripe and ready to eat. I suppose you can never have too much protection against diseases and other nasty things. Then I make my way to the least interesting aisle to visit. On my right, soups, other canned goods and a thousand and one crackers. On my left, a mix of marinades, shrimp cocktail sauces and the new, made-in-Quebec real mayonnaise, MAG. I’m hungry! I’ll certainly need a few slices of ham and two or three well-washed lettuce leaves if I want to taste this delightful mayo between two slices of bread. As I approach the fishmonger’s kingdom, I pretend to mentally count the number of lobsters I’ll need for my party of eight coming over on Saturday. The man, also handsome, takes a moment to think and comes around to the front of the display. He draws near to me and asks if any sides will be served with the lobsters. I weaken at the knees. I almost want to faint just so I can end up in his arms! In front of me, a hundred perfectly cooked red lobsters are laid out on a bed of snow waiting to be taken home. Once again, I glance at the good-looking fellow who smells lightly of seaweed. He’s a bit younger than me and married. His handsome face is to die for. Since we chat almost every time I come to do my grocery shopping, the fishmonger knows I’m from Gaspésie and, since lobster season is in full swing, he takes the liberty of touching my hand and chooses a very big one for me. Tonight, the big lobster and I will have a party. Once at home, I take the hammer out of the toolbox. Just like Grandpa Frédéric taught me, I start by rinsing my tools in boiling water: the hammer to break the shell and the knife to carve out the insides. Then, I delicately open the big lobster’s belly. Wow, it’s full of meat! I pull and cut away the animal’s four pairs of legs, its two impressive front claws and the enormous muscular tail, ready to come off. Suddenly I remember I’d also put a jar of the new mayo and two avocados in my cart. Perfect! I decide to treat myself to a real feast. I take a nice serving dish, a large soup bowl for the animal’s shell and my assortment of lobster crackers and forks from the cupboard. Then I uncork a good bottle of white wine and relish the moment. My big red lobster swallowed my sorrow whole! Cora ❤️

Do you remember my friend the journalist who’s interviewed me on a few occasions with her insightful questions? She’s sent me a few more queries to get my pen going. I felt like saying no, but I relent and say YES. — “What do you still want to know about me? I’ve shared so many things already! Now my heart hesitates between retirement and old age. There’s nothing very interesting to report other than my writing, which often feeds my mind in the morning. Go ahead, dear Isabel, ask away! I’m going to a ball tonight and I have to pick a suitable dress.” — “You’re going to a ball?” — “No, but I like the idea!” — “You seem in a mighty good mood this morning, jokes and all, Madame Cora! How’s your health? Do you still work? — “Yes, I’ve aged, just like the beautiful red leather couch in the living room. Its upholstery is a bit wrinkled, like my neck, but it’s the best place for an afternoon nap! I’m in great shape! My health, knock on wood, is good. My fingers type away on the keyboard, but my kneecaps moan a bit and keep me from praying on my knees, haha!” — “Madame Cora, are we born an entrepreneur or do we become one?” — “I became one. I was a thinker who only dreamt of writing poems. Then my marriage turned my life and dreams upside down. I entered the restaurant business to feed my kids. My success as a businesswoman came to me as a complete surprise. Maybe my creativity was the constant ingredient that made it all possible? If we’re talking about my birth, I’d say I was born somewhere between the 26 letters of the alphabet. Really! My ability to write remains the most precious thing I possess. A treasure I discovered later on. As for becoming an entrepreneur, I started when I opened a small 29-seat restaurant. It quickly became apparent that I had a flair and talent for cooking. I created an amazing breakfast restaurant concept by focusing on the first meal of the day. Our brand rapidly expanded into a network of some 150 breakfast restaurants across Canada, and I became the humble, and grateful, Queen of Breakfast.” — “Do you consider yourself a lone wolf or a social butterfly?” — “I still don’t truly know myself. I guess I mostly consider myself a lone wolf who learned to read, write and count. In business, I had to surround myself with others and work as a pack. I’ve always done my best for my children, employees and wonderful clients. For so many years I was a very serious woman. And now, at 78, I tend to be more of a social butterfly, playing the fool. I’m still a touch serious, however.” — “We all know that your hobby is writing. At the beginning of the pandemic, you started publishing a letter each Sunday and you’ve kept at it. Will you ever stop?” — “I swear, I need to write to express my emotions and rid myself of my obsessions. I want to continue to write until my heart stops beating. So many ants are still marching between my lines. I want to empty my head. Last time, you asked me if I preferred to draw or write, and I forgot to answer. I prefer to write, but I do love to draw, especially fruit, flowers and exotic birds of every colour. And owls. But you already know that!” — “What can someone offer a woman like yourself, who lacks for nothing?” — “Knit me another 22 years so that I can live to celebrate my hundredth birthday. Find me a partner who’s worth his salt! A tender, kind and educated man who loves going to the movies like I do. I want nothing else than to hold in my heart this divine providence that’s always aided me.” — “What would you tell a handsome suitor?” — “With several kilos of wisdom under my apron, I would first say nothing and listen intently to the words he attempts to seduce me with. I’d study his overall appearance, his clothing, his well-brushed shoes and notice the elegant smell of cologne hidden behind his ears. Almost every morning, when I’m writing at McDonald’s, I get an eyeful! I have my pick of the tall fellas who walk in on strong legs to place their order, as opposed to the lazy ones who take the drive-thru. I dillydally, I have fun. The more you eat, the bigger your appetite!” — “Speaking of which, let’s have a little fun! If you were a vegetable, which one would you be, and why?” — “Dear Isabel, if I were a vegetable, I’d most definitely be a nice ear of corn. A yellow like my yellow Cora sun, full of vitamins, phosphorus, magnesium and potassium. With my thick head of hair blowing in the wind, I’d stand tall in the fields until ripe and ready. Then I’d be carefully picked under the bright August sky, likely for a corn roast, where I’d no doubt be feted as the queen of the day. Every vegetable should have its minute of fame!” Cora ♥️

The older I get, the more I’m tempted to jump the fence of common sense. I realize that my life will come to an end sooner than later. I imagine a few scenarios. My wrinkling knees, my fingers climbing over each other, my awful forgetfulness and memory, which is becoming like a sieve. I scatter a few seeds in my declining cerebellum every day, and nothing grows. I try to write, search for evocative words, elaborate sentences, a new story to tell. I go on with my day and implore the angels. Could writing still be my morning prayer? Very early, often at the coffee shop, I write my story as if I will never die. Today (May 11, 2025), I celebrate Mother’s Day, the day of mothers everywhere, and wonder where my three children are. All of them are in their fifties, and maybe it’ll be their offspring that’ll wish me “Happy Mother’s Day, Gran!” before the end of the day. That’s how life goes, and so does my age, busy climbing higher than the clouds. I try to be strong but my memory is failing me. I live according to my inner weather, with its fog-shrouded and sun-lit days hidden within me. I see the yellow, dandelion-flecked grass, the uncomfortably cold water in the pool, the two groundhogs under my porch, a few young deer chewing on my cedar hedge. Outside, a few crows cling and flap on my sloped roof, fixing their eyes on a small yellow goldfinch with blackish wings. I quickly put on my old boots and fill all the bird feeders with sunflower seeds. Will the yellow bird build its nest close to my large kitchen windows? Am I in control of the situation? I sometimes get the impression that the sides of my big house are shrinking by the minute. The more I read, the more the books stack up, and the more I forget the themes of my book shelves. Every morning, I write so that my life continues to be worth living. Fatherless mother, addicted to words, I always have a notepad nearby, one or two pens that don’t stain my fingers, notes and a thousand more to remember, copy and tweak… My mind goes down unpredictable paths; a unique succession of lines all heading towards the empire of silence. Will I live much longer? I’d like to fall asleep in a vast forest of firs. Lying on my back, I’d breathe in the sublime fragrance of the trees. Without any tears or remorse, I’d simply become nourishment for the earthworms. For me, living is a pleasure that’s starting to crease with worry. No more long trips in my Mini, spontaneous road trips and exhausted arrivals. I hope I can still imagine everything I haven’t lived. Even love, this unstoppable vagabond. Would I have heard him if he had knocked on my door? I was too busy earning a living as a businesswoman; did all my success keep me from love? Even though my name is posted in large letters on more than 140 restaurant locations, who will remember me? I swear writing remains the best thing I can do to lighten the mental fog in my mind. For the last five years now, I’ve been writing almost daily. I also often write at night in my bed when a nightmare wakes me with a start. I only drink water during the night so that my ideas can flow. I often feel that writing a story causes quivers in my mind that are increasingly difficult to define. Sometimes a title comes to me ready to be laid out on the page, an enigmatic line is forgotten, maybe a half-unearthed memory from my childhood in Gaspésie. I dig, explore and search for time to extend my existence. I may be an old slate, but in excellent health despite the whims of a memory that seems to have a mind of its own. I still have so much to say before I head out to the open sea. So many questions to answer, so many people to thank for loving me. Cora ♥️

During the last five years, I’ve recounted my life story. I’ve shared my best recipes and my successes. I didn’t skimp on details about my failed marriage. I’ve told you about my travels and everyday life that I’ve embellished with my words. I’ve admitted that I’m still searching for the love of my life, having even tried my luck with a matchmaking agency! I’ve written about what I wish to complete before flying away. I still have a few secrets over which I have spilled many tears. Will I reveal them to you before I put down my pen for the last time? All the frozen tears and all the horrible words that came from Husband’s mouth were slowly killing me. I wasn’t 30 yet and my entire life revolved around him and the three children, moving from here to there, to another cockroach-infested apartment. I was afraid each time the baby woke up at night crying and hungry. I didn’t switch the lights on when I heated the milk bottle so I didn’t have to see the cockroaches dancing on the kitchen floor. As for Husband, the gambler, dancer and drinker, I’d worry when he came home in the wee hours of the morning. Did he still have enough strength in him to carry the children back to their beds? Motionless, with my eyes closed, I kept my back to him and pretended to be sound asleep. All I thought about was escaping an awful marriage that had deprived me of my native language and kept me from reading and writing, which I missed terribly. Since he’d sleep until noon, I’d dress and feed the kids, almost in silence, and then we’d tumble down the three flights of the dreadful triplex’s dilapidated stairs with the littlest one strapped securely in his baby carriage. I’d try to smile, even with my heart in shreds and my soul as empty as a pagan church. When a neighbour would say hello, I simply felt like crying, crumbling under the weight of my misfortune. Late in September, maybe early October, my period seemed to be off. I know the first symptoms well. The dread of being late, my small breasts swollen and sensitive, the nausea, fatigue and a belly growing a little rounder. I painfully count the days: 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33… I wait for the blood that never comes. Just like before. My heart aches, my body aches and my dizzy head suspects that a new life is moving inside me. I don’t say anything to my mom and dad, and certainly not a word to good-for-nothing Husband, who doesn’t care anyways. I try to hide, but the three children hear me sob. My daughter asks, “Why are you crying, Mommy?” I’m worried I’m pregnant again, and all I want to do is cry. Will I talk about it with the man who never looks at me? He puts his weapon inside me and butchers me every time. I’m writing these lines this morning and I can still feel the despair from those days. Pretending to have a pain in my left breast, I waited for Saturday so that Maria, my sister-in-law, could babysit the children for a few hours. Even without words, she knew what I was up to. She’d also been to the same big hospital and stretched her body on a cold metal table. With Husband still asleep, I tiptoed as I got ready. I made sure I had my health card in hand. My stomach was empty, as I had to stop eating at least 8 hours before the fateful appointment. I stuffed a large bag with a change of loose-fitting clothes and a shirt with short sleeves for the needle that would be injected into my arm. I also pack three or four large sanitary pads and a bunch of clean rags. As I left the triplex, I released all the tears my body had been withholding. I almost changed my mind, but when my feet touched the sidewalk, I found the courage to walk to the bus stop. Once at the hospital, a nurse took me to a small room and asked me to fill out a long questionnaire about my health. When she returned, she took my blood and did an ultrasound to evaluate the stage of the pregnancy. She then explained how the procedure would go. I’d already had an abortion, in Greece, barely a month after giving birth to my youngest son. The old doctor who had performed my postnatal exam had informed Husband that I had become pregnant again. They colluded to give me an abortion. The old doctor put me under and removed the embryo without my consent. This time around, I was fully aware of my decision. It tortured my mind and my heart. The nurse listened to my concerns and answered my questions. I cried, I was ashamed, I wanted to run away and die, but how could I abandon my three little ones? I put my head under the pillow and stopped breathing. A second nurse came in and informed me she had to check my vital signs. She inserted a small tube into my vein. She explained that I would be given a painkiller and sedative. She comforted me and told me I wasn’t going to be asleep, just a bit “out of it.” I was seized with fear when a man entirely dressed in white walked into the room. The doctor, I presumed. He approached my body. The nurse explained to me that the doctor was going to freeze my cervix, the passageway through which a baby emerges at birth. I was well aware that I wasn’t in any situation to bring another child into the world. I also knew, because my sister-in-law told me, that the doctor would insert a small straw-like plastic tube into me to draw out the contents of my uterus. I cried some more, I was afraid and I blamed myself; maybe I’d forgotten to take the small pill I was supposed to swallow every morning. Moments after the procedure was over, I was transferred to the recovery room where I stayed for an hour. A nurse checked my pulse, my heart rate and whether the bleeding had lessened. I couldn’t leave until the sedative and painkillers, which had weakened my reflexes and concentration, had worn off. They strongly recommended that someone accompany me home. I watched the clock and became anxious thinking about being stuck in the late-afternoon traffic on a bus full of passengers, and that Husband might wonder where I was. Even if he didn’t care a shred about me, he’d notice if I were absent. I got dressed slowly, thickening my underwear with two sanitary pads and a rag. All alone, I slowly descended the hospital’s big staircase. Once outside, I made my way to the bus stop with small steps. I must have looked a bit tired because a young girl offered me her seat. On the way home, I went through the full range of emotions. In front of the triplex, courage failed me and I collapsed. I had to get back on my feet quickly before someone saw me, or worse, before Husband caught sight of me. Exhausted, I climbed the stairs to the apartment step by step, holding onto the rail. I called my sister-in-law to let her know I was home and that she could bring the kids back. I took a deep breath and swallowed my pain. I locked this day away in a drawer in my memory. A drawer I rarely open because of the terrible wailing that is audible each time. Cora ❤️

Before I fly away, will I manage to remove my heart from its case of sorrow? I was a woman, then assumed the role of a man for my children, and here I am today, neither one or the other for myself. I sometimes feel as if my heart might stop beating, as if an angel were about to remove the batteries. I’m holding on by a thread and I only have an inkling of what eternity might look like. I cling tightly to the idea of time as something that has no beginning or end. Before I fly away, I’ll bless my three children. One daughter and two sons, all in their fifties now. They’re my reason for living, my pride and joy, and my legacy here on Earth. They gave me four grandsons and two granddaughters as well as two great-grandsons. What tremendous pleasure it will be to see them jump into their great-grandmother’s pool soon! Before I fly away, I should perhaps make peace with my children’s genitor. Mainly to forgive him for his mistakes, his complete lack of love and ignorance of what was right. He’s 91 now and still lives in his hometown. I should at least get in touch with him, say a few kind words and forgive him. Before I fly away, I should take the time to properly write out my best cake recipes: sachertorte, lemon poppy, Queen Elizabeth and my famous double chocolate cake stuffed with hazelnuts! These days, hazelnuts are rare and expensive, but thankfully I can purchase fresh ones every summer at the local Saturday outdoor market in Val-David, in the Laurentians. I fill two large Mason jars and store them in the dark in my top cupboard. This summer, I want to take my two rascals of great-grandsons to a place where they can pick hazelnuts themselves and I watch them as they stuff their adorable faces. Before I fly away, I’d like to draw some more. Back in my days as a businesswoman, I’d always have with me a variety of sharpened lead pencils and a set of 48 coloured pencils. Strangely, I especially enjoyed drawing fish, owls and sometimes faces. Sitting at my kitchen table, I’m staring at a beautiful owl sketched by my hand many years ago. Perhaps I should take up drawing again. Before I fly away, I should declutter my closets, but blessed with good health and living well, I instead dilly-dally and have fun, I keep all my colourful clothes that I’m so attached to. Each morning, I dress up in pink or yellow, add a touch of blue on my eyes and purple on my nose thanks to my new glasses. Before I fly away, I’d like to take my time to say goodbye to the beautiful landscapes I’ve loved so much: my splendid Gaspésie, my hometown, the steep red cliffs, the St. Lawrence’s whales and the thousands of seagulls I used to talk to when I was a child. I’d insist on visiting Percé Rock once more, walk over at low tide, touch it and caress it again, probably for the last time. Before I fly away, will I cross a few oceans? I’ve visited France, Italy, Denmark, Sweden and Norway. I’ve lived in terrible Greece where Husband came from. I’ve also walked for two long hours on the Great Wall of China and, three years later, admired the cherry tree blossoms in the oldest village in Japan. Having criss-crossed our vast country so many times to help plant more than a 100 restaurants, I’d be just as delighted to inaugurate a new one! Before I fly away, I want so much to fall in love for real. To find the man of my dreams, who’d build us a small island in our heads, where our soulmates would happily meet. Before I fly away, I’ll beg the angels for my parents to recognize and greet me at Heaven’s gate. I’ll confess my sins, my mistakes, my wrongdoings, my remorse and, hopefully, I’ll be welcomed into paradise. Usually, when I’m writing at my kitchen table, I don’t answer the telephone. But today, March 24, 2025, I don’t know why, but I answer. It’s my good friend from the Upper Laurentians who’s calling to inform me that her beloved husband has just passed after a 10-month-long battle with a dreadful cancer. I quickly shut my iPad and sob. Death, the horrible grim reaper, peers over us night and day. Cora ❤️

This morning, I’m revisiting another childhood memory just for you. My father had taken advantage of the long Thanksgiving weekend to satisfy my brother’s request to see a bear, “a real one,” before the snow covered the landscape with a white blanket. Dad has asked Uncle Gaston if we could borrow his shack, in the middle of the woods, to get closer to nature. And real bears. The family suitcase overflowed with all kinds of woolen clothes, heavy flannel nightgowns and felt linings for our boots. Every kid wore a parka buttoned up to the neck. We were squeezed together in the car and we couldn’t wait to arrive at our destination. Since there was no running water and electricity in the shack, Mom had prepared all our food and placed it in a cooler and large metal lunchbox so the shack wouldn’t smell heavily of food. Dad finally put the car in park, Mom removed the littlest one from her breast and my brother jumped out of the car. We’d barely arrived, and my brother, believing it was his destiny, was already off to explore. “Wait for your father before you go in there!” warned Mom. The two men inspected the shack to ensure it was safe for us. Upon setting foot inside, we saw that the shack consisted of one large room with a wood-burning stove that had been cobbled together, probably by Uncle Gaston. The pipe, which was hanging loosely from the ceiling, ran outside from a hole in the wall above the only door. A tin pot with a lid that served as a rustic chamber pot sat in the corner. In the opposite corner, there was a double bed. The three children would be crammed in the middle, flanked by a parent on each side so that none of them would fall out in the middle of the night. The baby would sleep in a cradle that we’d borrowed from the neighbour. It would be secured to a chair and placed next to Mom’s pillow. My sister had buried her head under a pillow, and I was on the floor on all fours, desperately rocking the baby’s cradle, trying to stop her from crying her lungs out and put her to sleep. As the cabin grew darker, Mom started to pace more quickly. Walking back and forth in the shack, she raged against our father. How dare he go out without telling her first? Why had he taken his only son outside with him while night was approaching? — “He wanted to check out the surroundings,” I calmly answered, although she wasn’t really asking me. “He wanted to be ready for tomorrow morning.” My words didn’t succeed in calming her. Mom was staring at the gun in its case, resting against the wall. “What if he needs it?” she whispered, worried. Dad and my brother weren’t coming back. It was going to be a horrible night! After my little sister finally fell silent, our ears, despite being numbed by the recent screaming, caught the growl of a bear. Frightened, we clearly heard its claws against the door. Mom had picked up every last bread crumb that had fallen from the large, buttered molasses sandwiches we’d devoured before putting on our nightgowns. Terrified, she pushed the table against the door. She climbed on a chair and used her coat to cover the cabin’s only window and then she ordered her two daughters to join her in bed. She told me she wanted to pray, but the words caught in her throat. Instead of reciting words, she swallowed large gulps of dread. Her eyelids fluttered with fear. Her hands, quick to fall prey to her eczema, became inflamed. I must’ve been around six and I knew how to write. In my childish mind, I thought about writing all over the walls before the bear, who was prowling around the shack, found a way in to devour us. Kneeled at the foot of the bed, Mom had stopped talking, but gesturing with her arms and hands, made it clear we were to stay nestled against her. I stayed in my mother’s arms for so long that I felt like I was in paradise despite the terror of the moment. The warmth of her body eventually calmed us and, without us even realizing it, sleep fell upon the bed like a quilt made of dreams. Perhaps it would lead us to a field of wild blueberries? Or to the beach on the Baie des Chaleurs? Or maybe to Aunt Hope’s place, where we were allowed to pat her sweet lambs? At dawn, we were awoken by Dad. My brother was exhausted but excited too, and insisted on telling us about spending the night in a tree! My little sister was applauding him as if he had returned a hero. She wanted to see a real bear too! Mom’s silence was the worst torture for Dad. It was harder to take than overt retaliation. The day after our return, like every Sunday afternoon, Dad would go back on the road, taking his travelling salesman’s suitcase and small soap samples with him. Thankfully for their marriage, he’d leave every Sunday to tour Gaspésie and return on Friday night. Like the Berlin Wall separating two sides, the weekly absence kept them apart, allowing them to both survive. Mom’s eczema-covered hands made her suffer and Dad’s heart marinated in sour brine. We children knew nothing about life, their lives, love or the comforts of a normal family. Their tears, which they cried in silence away from our eyes, except when we caught them by surprise, filled our home with sadness. The most painful part of it was their silence. A firewall that prevented us from knowing the worst of it. Both our parents died in 1982. It was only then that I found out the reason for their heavy sorrows. As a young woman, Mom was in love with a young anglophone protestant. Her family and the village’s priest forbade her from marrying him, however, so she had to break up with the love of her life. My grandfather had nine daughters to marry. When he met the one who would become my father, he believed him to be a good man, clean, well dressed, someone who worked hard and, above all, was head over heels with his daughter, whose heart was shattered. Her father insisted, and my mother married my father. She lived a sad and melancholy life for the most part after their union. Very quickly after their wedding, she developed a severe form of eczema that ate away at her hands. My Dad, on the other hand, turned out to be the best of men, courageous, responsible and so completely enamoured with his frigid wife that the old men of the village would make fun of him. I’ll end this letter by admitting to you that I didn’t do any better in matrimonial affairs. A hardened divorcee, I’m still looking for the balm that might soothe my wounds. I was also forced into marriage and I too put a dark veil over the lives of my young children by remaining in a marriage without love or affection. But I have hope. I have a lot of hope in my grandchildren who I’m certain will know how to liberate themselves from their ancestors’ misfortunes and build their own happiness as they wish. Cora ❤️

For this letter, I’m going to snuggle up with the past and cherish the memory of a precious afternoon in the park with Paul. I was 27 and had been married to horrible Husband for 7 years. Paul was finishing his PhD in aerospace engineering. We bumped into each other by chance at a library I’d sometimes visit to read, safe from my in-laws’ prying eyes. I’d read in secret in defiance of my husband, who forbade me to read and write. Hardened into a mould by his military success and consumed by hubris, he was a few centuries behind civilization in the way he thought. He lacked respect, kindness and true love. I hid from him to try to survive with a bit of normalcy. When I saw Paul walking towards my table, my heart immediately started to tremble. Before that moment in the library, we’d last seen each other during our teen years at a huge bonfire party. Paul wasn’t a close friend; we’d played tennis together occasionally in the city where we lived. I was too young and too naïve to understand the electrifying sensation we’d experience when we picked up a ball together or shook hands like pros at the end of a match. I must’ve been 15 or 16, ignorant and troubled when I felt this young man’s gaze on me. More than a decade later, the only thing I remembered when Paul locked his eyes on mine in the library was that bonfire, organized by the town at summer’s end. All I had left from that evening was a brief recollection of his gaze fixed on me through the fiery flames. We were sitting around the fire, across from each other. It felt as if something inside of me was burning like a log in those flames. Was it my head or my heart? During the many years that followed, I wanted to feel the warmth of this fire again, even if for just a second. Seated at the table in the library, my hands could hardly hold my book. Did Paul recognize me? He suddenly pushed his chair back, stood up and started walking towards me. He let out a sublime “You’re more beautiful than ever!” I thought I was going to faint; my legs sunk into quicksand and my heart leapt from my chest. You must understand that, at that moment in my life, the woman seated in that library was in total ruins, incapable of responding to the incredible sweetness before her. My lips were quivering, unable to utter a single word. “Do you feel like going for a walk in the park?” Paul asked. I followed him, stammering. He casually took my arm as we crossed the street and that electrifying sensation seemed to go through our bodies, like it used to. He must’ve felt it too because he hurried to tell me that he was engaged to an actress. The news only added to my turmoil of walking beside him. Paul was now a man and a splendid person. As handsome as my Doctor Zhivago! Holding my head high, I followed him towards the lake, doing the best I could to keep my eyes from releasing an ocean of sorrow. My wedded life was slowly killing me. I was a prisoner to horrible Husband and my beloved children, who only had me to love. My babies fed me with spoonfuls of young love. Their smiles kept me alive. We sat at a distance on a long park bench. Paul consoled me without even knowing it by telling me that he’d looked for me for a long time. He had no idea that I had also pursued my intellectual interests. He didn’t know that I’d been forced to marry the father of an unplanned child and that I’d given birth to two more after the wedding. As if he’d felt my sorrow, Paul grabbed my hand. He told me once more how beautiful he thought I was and how his young man’s heart would sigh each time he’d think of me during those many years. Although he’d made a point to quickly inform me he was engaged, he was thoughtful enough to avoid telling me about his fiancée. I simply learned that they’d be moving to the United States for better career prospects. I was glad everything was working out for him. I had to leave soon to go get the kids at school. Paul asked me for my address, but I refused to give it to him. On the bus ride to pick up my children, my heart was brave. I understood that Paul had liked me, even if it had only been for one summer afternoon. He was interested in me, both then and now. Contrary to the way Husband treated me, Paul had complimented me, admitting that he found me to be even more beautiful than the innocent young girl I once was. Cora ❤️

My firstborn’s fingers are stained in bright colours. He struggles, painting all day long, to find the right shade that will put his torments to rest. Sometimes, he sends me a picture of a painting darker than an impenetrable obscurity and asks me if I see a dragon. Maybe a pilgrim lost in the woods? Or a drifting boat? My first son is an artist. He sees things before they even exist. My eldest can spend an entire week shaping the swell of a choppy sea, caressing every wave that breaks or crashes on the shore. He has the patience of a Buddhist monk as he plays with 10 shades of blue. I observe, sometimes up to several months, as his sketch evolves. We have this in common: the draft, or rough outline, a still imperfect form we give our work. The drafts of my letters and his drawings are very similar – both adventuring towards a beginning. An ephemeral title to start, a preliminary layer of colour or a series of spun sentences, locked under a mountain of doubt and hesitation. Stringing words together isn’t as messy as painting, but it takes longer for meaning to emerge. Like undisciplined kids in a schoolyard, subjects, verbs and adverbs have to wait for the bell to ring to move in a straight line. Recess often lasts for a few days in my head. Sentences lurch and sway on a slippery skating rink. I wait, suffer and doubt my talent. I implore creativity to come to my rescue. You and I, dear son, began our artistic careers late in life. With our white heads as furious as a snowstorm, we don’t need to know who we are or to divine the destination before leaping. We love to create, blending red with blue to create purple. We harness all that inspires us; simple truths, books, masterpieces, inspiring quotes, conversations with our friends, dreams and words whispered to our souls at night. Let’s have a little fun with Picasso and pretend we’re as good as him! Let’s use what feeds us and gives us reason to believe we’re making progress. Let’s trust in Lady Inspiration, the lifeline that feeds the canvas and the text. The artist, my dear son, takes their measure and worth by working, praying, striking the keyboard and caressing the same landscape a thousand times. They experiment, practice and wade through the sketches of the masters, imitating this and that until they discover their own individual artistry. It’s by failing to do justice to the original that we often discover our own path. Let’s build our own universe with a few trusty carrier pigeons resting on our windows. Let’s share letters, text messages, photos, wild ideas, unusual colours and divine inspiration. And let’s get some fresh air. Inhale long and deep. The brain gets sleepy when it stays in its usual place. Distance and unfamiliar scenery stimulate the imagination. Apparently, even bad weather can flame the artistic fire. Embrace austerity, dear son, because all belongings are an obstacle to creativity. Have confidence in your work, in the magical, indescribable moment when a brushstroke illuminates your painting. Savour this microsecond when you feel bliss, astonishment and wonder; the moment when all the forces of the universe converge to reveal to you what is hidden to others. Know that this moment of euphoria is like a drug; once we’ve tasted it, we spend forever trying to recapture the fleeting jubilation. You likely know already that creativity is 95% hard work and 5% magical inspiration. Creativity is a set of skills that we can master if we put our minds to it. I type on my keyboard for hours on end, trying to link together a breathtaking sentence. I hope and pray; begging the muses and writing’s grace. Dear son, I wish to encounter that rare moment of genius too, when unpredictability opens the door to possibility. Isn’t it what we’re both experiencing? You’re painting the picture you’d like to hang in your living room. I’ve published the book I wanted to read. The wise ones say that it’s never too late. And I, your mother, will search for the black eagle hidden beneath your bright colours until my very last breath. Cora ♥️

I’ve already shared with you that I dreamt of becoming a writer when I was young. Life’s rough hands tore my dream from me and shut it away for the longest time. Today, as an old woman, writing brings me the most pleasure. I write to share my experience, my secrets and my long life. I write to sow a little love and to reap a lot. I write mostly because I can’t do otherwise. I type tirelessly on my iPad to learn how to love myself and to discover who I am. I write to surprise myself with all the small revelations that emerge, secrets buried deep within me. I write to woo life’s impenetrability and breathe a little hope into my battered heart. I write to uproot the worst and slay it. I write to trace my life, so I don’t forget the little things and convince myself that my life until now hasn’t been in vain. I do it to try and figure out what might happen to me. I mostly write to avoid the sleepiness of my consciousness. Words are little pick-me-ups that, with any luck, will keep my ink busy for years to come. I lay my words out on the paper for my own pleasure and that of those who read me. Writing allows me to express myself and display my dreams. I sometimes take myself for a relentless creator, imagining worlds, surreal situations and scenarios, and giving birth to characters. Yet the stories that come to life at my fingertips often turn out to be true. Most of the time, I write to expel the unspeakable, well-hidden truth. I darken pages to dream and to strengthen my imagination. I don’t know how to dance or sing any better than I can flirt or love. I console myself believing that my last magical power stems in a nicely crafted sentence I’ve strung together. Could my writing add something that wasn’t already part of this world? A wreath of flowers, a four-leaf clover, a wise crow, my heart on its knees. My sentences are empty of meaning but filled with poetry. My head is a circus and the stories I tell help me survive. Writing in a coffee shop or sitting at my large kitchen table, I type, amuse myself and weave a story. I write to shout that my heart still has so much love to give. I write to embrace my solitude, lighten my sadness and dull my useless anguish. I flee the desert of the blank page to distract myself with the unruliness of words. I write to imagine paradise and its great golden door. I write to think out loud about the mysteries of the universe and tame the indecipherable. With each new dawn, I rejoice. I turn on the lamp and write for about an hour in my bed. Fighting the vertigo that comes with still being alive, I imagine my heart purring with love. I write to chase away my old sorrows, heal from the scratches of time and to save my story from erasure. I pick up the pen to tease forth inspiration, counter the dullness of the everyday and to keep my 10 fingers from going numb. I sometimes bury my sorrow deep within the page. I write to honour inspiration’s muse, stimulate my creative hemisphere and enjoy the tremendous happiness writing fills me with. I write to express my emotions and, mostly, my obsessions. I write to catch up on a life that is slipping away too quickly. I write to make the most of my originality as a human being. I write to open myself to wonder. I write to learn how to live without working. I write to learn how to become a good person. I write so that I don’t cry. I write to befriend the reaper. Dear readers, might you have a few good reasons to write too? Cora ❤️

The body in which I inhabit is starting to frighten me. Has it reached the maximum number of times it can regenerate its cells? Are they functioning at a slower pace now that they’re almost 78? Like my memory, and my legs, which, once quick and athletic, vaulted me high over poles. They even propelled me to the top of the podium at an intercollegiate pole vault competition in Montreal. I can still see them – long, thin and agile, jumping into the air. When I see pretty faces aging behind my television screen, I freeze. My gaze fixed on the plasma, I touch my deflated cheeks, my wrinkling lips and my eyes, receding into my skull. In my opinion, one of the most elegant words reserved for elderly people is “mature.” Think about it for a moment. A state of peak existence, not decrepitude. I have a habit of eating apples constantly. I buy so many that sometimes they start to shrivel before I’ve had the chance to bite into one. Almost imperceptibly, the flesh of the forbidden fruit dries, sags and atrophies, its skin becoming flaccid. Even if its flesh remains enjoyable for human consumption, the envelope has deteriorated. My face is a good approximation of a wizened apple adorned with beautiful, coloured glasses perched on the nose! Thanks to the town’s optician, I can still see the words I write and watch them fly away in the wind. According to what I’ve read on the subject, as the three cutaneous layers lose volume and efficacy a number of effects can be observed: reduced elasticity and essential lipids, lower cutaneous nerve endings and loss of sensitivity. Heaven help me! But the worst part is, which no one expects, the reduction in the number of sweat glands and the atrophy of blood vessels that diminishes the skin’s ability to protect itself from the heat. So, in addition to being less tolerant of the sun’s rays, we wilt more quickly in the heat, even though we no longer sweat like we did in our prime! I’ll never lounge in the sun again! I vividly remember the years as a cook when the heat was unrelenting, thanks to the hot flashes of menopause. In my first small kitchen, I’d break the eggs, flip the crêpes and put up with it. I’d do my best to stifle my sensations and, when an intense hot flash would soak my neck, I’d call my daughter for backup so she could take my place at the griddle for 30 minutes or so. I’d say the code “the tortellini is boiling,” and she knew straight away what to do. Dear reader, I’m sharing this secret code in case it might come in handy! Thank heavens, I can’t see my sagging bottom. My flabby behind is the culprit causing my legs to move slower these days. During the pandemic, I walked a fair share, but since I’ve settled into my morning coffee routine with my friends, my bottom is always parked on a chair. While I type away at the keyboard and pile up drafts, my lower body is losing its agility. My poor old legs even wake me up at night. I must get out of bed and walk for a good 15 minutes around the house until the pain subsides. You know this about me already: I’m crazy about colours. I loved decorating my breakfast dishes with colourful fruit. I enjoy dressing up in bright colours. Why do you think I dress this body that’s about to lose the battle against age in an array of hues? When you turn on your screen to read my letters, don’t you notice the energizing colours and the beautiful brooches I wear like badges of strength and courage? Before we pack our bags to leave, let’s thank our old wobbly shells for taking us this far and congratulate ourselves for living. For many, the slow decay of aging is worse for worrying about it; as if a pink-horned devil blamed all the world’s pain on age. Moustaches spring from discarded carrots, and sprouts strut their stuff on the noggin of overripe potatoes. In my book, age doesn’t have an age, but aging, although it displeases me, is inevitable. Que sera, sera! This morning, I wanted to poke fun at this mortal shell that seems so precious. We have to treat it with care to help it last as long as possible, but for the rest, it’s just an ornate Buddha decorating our lives and our little palaces. Our true nature is invisible to the naked eye. Like a miraculous sap that feeds us, shapes us and sets us apart. This true nature shines like a light inside us; it’s our duty to keep this flame alive. I’m aging, dwindling, weakening; I’m dying terribly slowly, in small steps. Toes and fingers climbing on top of one another trying to escape their fate. My memory is a sieve that has allowed the provocateurs that once tripped my temper to escape. My old heart, almost as empty as a church, still hopes to fulfill a few desires yet. Old, tired and clumsy servants, my hands still prefer to WRITE. They insist on telling my story. More than all the gold, myrrh and incense, these precious hands have no desire to return to dust. Cora ♥️